


a wonderful caricature of intimacy

by endofadream



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Anal Sex, Artist Steve Rogers, Bisexual Disaster Steve Rogers, Bottom Bucky Barnes, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Depression, Eventual Happy Ending, Ex-Military Steve Rogers, Exotic Dancer Bucky Barnes, F/M, Heavy Angst, Human Trafficking, M/M, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Object Insertion, Oral Sex, Pls heed the warnings and tags folks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Rape/Non-con Elements, Strippers & Strip Clubs, Unsafe Sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-06
Updated: 2020-12-04
Packaged: 2021-02-28 06:09:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 18,927
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22589188
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/endofadream/pseuds/endofadream
Summary: The guy on stage is beautiful, his cheekbones high and his face angular in a way that Steve doesn’t often see outside of high-fashion magazine spreads or old Hollywood films. His eyes are blue and heavy-lidded, and his dark hair is pulled into a low bun at the nape of his neck. A few strands fall across his forehead as he raises one arm to the pole in the middle of the stage, then the other, gripping before twisting his body against it in ways that make Steve’s throat go very dry and his sensible slacks go very tight.
Relationships: Clint Barton/Natasha Romanov, James "Bucky" Barnes & Alexander Pierce, James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers, Past James "Bucky" Barnes/Brock Rumlow
Comments: 203
Kudos: 264





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> please please PLEASE heed the warnings on this!! this fic is through Steve's POV, so most things will be implied, but some things will be explicit. since this is a bit of a slow burn, until the element is introduced I am going to keep the warnings neutral, but I will absolutely put disclaimers before the chapters where it happens, as well as how to avoid it. please take care of yourselves before reading <3
> 
> and yes, title is from "build god, then we'll talk" by panic! at the disco because I am predictable.

There’s something about seeing a strip club during the day that really makes you think twice.

Perhaps it makes you think about yourself and your choices, or maybe even the choices of others that transpire every night in this shabby, nondescript building set apart from the rest of the low-roofed buildings on the strip only by the neon sign out front. It isn't lit, and the watery fall sun throws the faded neon tubes into stark, unattractive relief.

It’s a bit like seeing Vegas before nightfall, in a way: all the magic and mystery the night offers is gone, the city’s dirty gray concrete secrets bared to the world. You don’t see the grandeur of its lights or its eclectic collection of people and performers; instead, all you can see is its facade, and suddenly you’re aware of what a  _ lonely _ facade it is.

By all means Steve should turn back and keep looking for another job, one that he would be more qualified for. But  _ The Red Room _ pays well, is flexible with his freelancing schedule, and Steve isn't half-bad at making drinks already, if what his friends say is anything to go by.

It also doesn’t help that he’s broke as fuck. And when you’re broke as fuck, well, a job is a job.

He double-checks the instructions in the email on his phone ( _ side door will be open _ ) and hesitates for a moment more, smoothing down his shirt and brushing back his hair before sliding his phone in his back pocket, gripping the rusted door handle, and pulling.

Inside, the club is dim but more spacious than the outside led Steve to believe. After looking around, he sees that the only other person in the room is a man on the main stage towards the back.

Dressed in a neon pink pair of hotpants and nothing else, the man stretches, some pop song that Steve vaguely recognizes from the radio blaring tinnily from the iPhone propped up against one of the stage lights.

From the looks of it he’s about the same height as Steve. He’s also almost as muscular, but manages to carry it with an ease that Steve, ungainly even all these years later, has never been entirely capable of. Elegant might be the best way to describe it, maybe even captivating; the guy knows exactly what he’s doing, that he’s being watched, and he thrives on it.

Steve is so caught up in doing just that when the guy finally looks over in his direction. And, like his asthma has made a triumphant return, his breath catches in his chest.

The guy on stage is beautiful, his cheekbones high and his face angular in a way that Steve doesn’t often see outside of high-fashion magazine spreads or old Hollywood films. His eyes are blue and heavy-lidded, and his dark hair is pulled into a low bun at the nape of his neck. A few strands fall across his forehead as he raises one arm to the pole in the middle of the stage, then the other, gripping before twisting his body against it in ways that make Steve’s throat go very dry and his sensible slacks go very tight.

“We don’t open until seven,” the guy says, still stretching, though thankfully he’s stopped rolling his hips. His voice, soft and low with a hint of a rasp, echoes in the empty space and seems to crawl all over Steve’s skin.

“I, um. I’m here for an interview? About the bartending position?” he says, his own voice echoing.

For a moment the guy just stares, saying nothing. Then he moves forward, presses pause on the music, and jumps down, walking towards Steve. He has what can only be described as a strut, the long lines of muscle in his thighs flexing as his hips sway. Steve couldn’t look away even if he tried.

When the guy finally stops in front of him, Steve sees that his initial assumption of blue eyes was wrong: they’re gray more than anything else, seeming to shift endlessly and effortlessly between the two colors. Having that gaze directly on him makes Steve weak in a lot of places.

“What’s your name?” the guy asks.

“Um.” Steve draws an immediate blank where his name definitely should be. Did he really just forget his own  _ name _ ? Good god. “Uh, it’s Steve. Steve Rogers.”

“I’m James, but most people call me Bucky,” the guy says. His eyes cut down, and when they move back up to Steve’s they’re a little more suggestive, a little sharper. “You sure you wouldn’t rather be a dancer here, sugar? You got the right frame and all for it. I know a lotta cougars who would kill each other just to touch your arms. Among other things.”

At this Bucky outright smirks, and Steve feels the heat spread from his neck up to the tips of his ears. He wonders if spontaneous combustion is real and what would happen if he were to explode in the middle of a strip club. His ma would be disappointed, that’s for sure.

“Positive,” he manages, the word feeling like a barb stuck in his throat. “I’m not really coordinated enough for that. Two left feet, you know how it goes.”

Bucky draws his lips into his mouth, releasing them and then biting the lower one in a way that Steve is sure isn’t an accident. “Pity,” he says, half-smiling. “I think we coulda had a really nice shared routine.”

Steve is about to say something stupid and cliche like  _ you thought wrong, _ like his life is some stupid rom-com, when the click of a latch echoes in the empty space.

They both turn when a door off to the left of the bar opens and a man emerges. He’s tall, with red hair beginning to turn gray at the temples. His face retains the vestiges of a long-ago handsomeness, but something is slightly off-kilter about him that ruins the effect it may have had; maybe it’s the sharp look in his eyes that isn’t unlike a predator’s. The dark gray three-piece suit that he’s wearing doesn’t help, either. In a Jersey City strip club it’s more than a little out of place.

Immediately Steve is on edge as he watches this man cross the room to them. He’s been out of special ops for almost two years now and has acclimated back into the ease of civilian life but some things never change, and an initial assessment of new people is one of them. Even before the army he was good at reading people, and what he’s receiving from this man is capital-T Trouble.

The man stops, staring hard at them. “Bucky,” he says slowly, like he’s talking to a particularly dumb child, “are you getting paid to flirt with the interviewees?”

Bucky immediately goes stiff, head lowering. “No, Mr. Pierce,” he replies quietly

Pierce continues to stare at Bucky, emotionless, stretching it on just long enough to be uncomfortable before saying, “Then get back to stretching. Wouldn’t want you getting hurt, now would we?”

“No, Mr. Pierce,” Bucky mumbles. Without looking back, he heads towards the stage and turns the music back on, though quieter this time. He grips the pole in both hands and hoists himself up.

“You must be Steve Rogers,” Pierce says. He extends a hand. “I’m Alexander Pierce, the owner.”

Steve, who has been watching Bucky climb back up on stage and who has gotten a little distracted by the way Bucky’s shorts hug his ass, has to collect himself before he extends his own hand. “Pleased to meet you, sir.” Pierce’s grip is tight to the point of almost being uncomfortable. Steve doesn’t sigh in relief when Pierce lets go, but it’s a close thing.

Pierce gestures to the door he had come out of. “Follow me this way.”

The club is average-sized and unremarkable: the main stage is in the middle, with velvet-backed booths spaced out along the walls. There are two smaller strips of lighted stage with three poles each, tables clustered around. It’s a generic strip club, nothing special, though it isn't like a lot of Jersey strip clubs are special. You’ll need to go across the water for that, and not many of those will hire a bartender with no experience.

When they reach the office Pierce shuts the door behind Steve before taking a seat behind his desk. Steve goes for one of the two brown armchairs in front of the desk, sitting down and folding his hands over his lap.

Once he’s comfortable Pierce says, “So, Steve. You would like to take over the night shift, is that correct?”

Steve nods. “Yeah. I’m a freelancer, so most of my work is done during the day. I’m free for day shifts as well, if you’d need me. I just mostly would prefer nights.”

Pierce makes a distant noise of assent, scrolling through his computer, which is open, presumably, to Steve’s resumé. “And you’re ex-military?”

Steve clears his throat and nods stiffly. “Yes, sir, right outta college.”

“What made you join?”

Steve tries not to wince. If there’s one thing he hates it’s having to explain why he decided to enlist when he had a perfectly good high school diploma and a scholarship to the college he’d dreamed about since he was a kid. It’s no one’s damn business  _ why _ he did it. Pierce already stirs something slightly uneasy in his belly, so Steve only says, “I had to do what I felt was right.”

It’s not necessarily a lie; Steve just keeps the full truth close to his chest where it belongs. A reckless kid with no parents and too much self-righteous anger always has been and always will be perfect army fodder. Add in his penchant for running headfirst with no backup and no plan and he’s a wet dream for enlisters.

Pierce looks up at him. Steve meets his eyes and doesn’t elaborate further. Quickly enough it seems like Pierce gets the message that Steve is done talking about it because he turns away from his computer and steeples his fingers together on top of his desk.

“I will admit, Steve,” Pierce begins, “that you are both overqualified and underqualified for this job.”

Steve fights the urge to sigh.

“But we need a bartender, and so far you’re the best application we’ve gotten.” Pierce scrutinizes him. “Wednesday night be here at six PM sharp. You’ll meet up with Natasha and show her what you can do. If you impress her, the job is yours.”

“Is she—”

“Our head bartender, yes.”

Steve has to bite the inside of his lip at the rush of irritation when Pierce interrupts him. “That sounds great,” he says, doing his best to make his smile as believable as possible. Christ, he’s never wanted to leave an interview so fast in his life. “Is there anything else that we need to discuss?”

“I think I’ve gotten everything I need.” Pierce smiles, and Steve can’t help but find it slippery. “We’ll see you Wednesday, Steven. Don’t forget to be on your best behavior.”

The words echo unsettlingly in Steve’s mind as he closes the door to Pierce’s office behind him. It seems ambiguous enough, since Wednesday is technically an interview in itself before he actually gets the job, but Steve turns them over in his mind cautiously anyway.

Bucky is still on the stage, but the music has stopped. He’s sitting on the edge, legs down over the side, typing on his phone. There’s a faint sheen of sweat on Bucky’s chest and forehead, so he must have just finished his warm-up. Steve wants to lick it up.

At the sound of footsteps Bucky’s shoulders tense and his head shoots up. For a fraction of a second it looks like fear blooms in the wideness of his eyes, but it’s gone in a blink and replaced with the same sharp flirtiness from before once he sees that it’s Steve.

“Finished already?” Bucky asks with no small amount of insinuation.

“Is everything you say an innuendo?” Steve replies, raising an eyebrow.

Bucky laughs, locking his phone and setting it down beside him. He braces his weight on his palms and leans forward where Steve’s hesitating at the edge of the stage. “Wouldn’t you like to know, huh?”

Unfortunately, yes, Steve would. Feeling bold, or maybe just completely struck stupid by the beauty of the nearly-naked man in front of him, he says, “Maybe I’ll find out. I come on Wednesday to interview with Natasha.”

To his surprise, Bucky laughs, then hops down from the stage. “Oh, sweetheart. You better hope you’re good, otherwise Natasha is gonna eat you alive. There’s a reason we call her the Black Widow around here.”

“You’re really making me want to work here,” Steve responds dryly, watching Bucky’s movements as he reaches up and slips the elastic from his hair. It falls from its messy bun precisely at his shoulders, the ends slightly bent from being wrapped up.

Though Bucky is only shorter than Steve by an inch or so, he holds himself in a way that makes Steve feel like the roles are reversed. Drawing his lower lip between his teeth, Bucky reaches up and takes Steve’s chin in his hand. Steve is fairly certain he stops breathing. Christ al _ mighty _ this man is gorgeous, and Steve is only weak-willed flesh.

“I’m just bein’ honest,” Bucky replies, voice low. His eyes don’t move from Steve’s. “And honestly, Stevie? I’d hate to not get to see your pretty face every night.”

His thumb brushes Steve’s surprise-slackened mouth and then he’s gone, picking up his phone and throwing a wink over his shoulder as he disappears behind the velvet curtains of the stage. Steve is left standing in the middle of the floor, skin hot and heart beating a little too fast at the way the nickname slipped so easily from Bucky’s mouth.

He blinks slowly.

Well. Fuck.

——

“So I interviewed with a strip club today,” Steve says that night while turning on the TV for the game.

Sam, his roommate and to whom Steve very much owes his current productive existence to, only says from the kitchen, “I hope it wasn’t to dance. Because, no offense, even for a white boy you’re terrible.

“As always, your vote of confidence is much appreciated, Sam.”

Sam appears around the corner with a smirk on his face and a Brooklyn Lager in each hand. Steve accepts his gratefully, taking a long pull while Sam settles onto the couch next to him.

Sam says, “Look, man. As your best friend, it's my job to keep it real.”

Steve lets the hoppiness of the beer settle on the back of his tongue and slide warm into his belly before he replies, “I know, but do you have to keep it so real all the time? You’re wounding a man’s ego.”

“Shut the hell up with that bullshit.” Sam laughs. “You’re the self-proclaimed poster boy for white dancing.”

“Maybe I’m branching out like you keep telling me to,” Steve shoots back easily, hiding his grin in the cool mouth of his beer bottle. “You know what they say, ‘do what scares you.’

Sam rolls his eyes and elbows Steve’s shoulder. “But seriously, how’d it go? Did you get it?”

Steve sets his beer down on a coaster and grabs the remove to flip to ESPN, saying, “I gotta go in on Wednesday night to work with their head bartender. If she likes me, I got the job.”

Sam nods. “Do you wanna practice anything on me this week?”

Steve shakes his head. “Nah, man, but I appreciate it.”

To be honest, he’s feeling fairly confident about his abilities, as basic as they are. Even though Bucky’s words about Natasha echo in his mind, Steve isn’t too worried. Besides, even if he doesn’t get it, it won’t be the end of the world. He’ll just have to hop back on the grind.

“You still gonna have time to focus on your art?” Sam asks after they fall silent for a few minutes, the only sound in the apartment the cheer of the crowd and the crack of the bat onscreen.

That’d been Steve’s biggest struggle, especially coming out of the forces the way that he did. Bogged down by PTSD and depression, he didn’t touch a paintbrush or a pencil for almost six months before Sam set his foot down. Now, a year and some change later he’s finally making money off of commissions and the occasional original piece, but it’s been an uphill battle. And truthfully, he’s still breathing hard from it.

“I’ll make sure I have the time,” he says, giving Sam a quick smile so he knows he’s telling the truth. “Besides, I have that one big fanart commission I’m working on that I’m nearly done with. That’s good money right there.”

“What guy’s fucking what guy now?”

Steve snorts into his beer. “That was one time and it paid  _ very  _ well.”

Sam gives him a sly glance. “Bet you enjoyed that.”

For the second time that day Steve curses his Irish skin that makes it almost impossible to lie about these things. It also makes him think of Bucky again, of his eyes, his hair, god, his fucking  _ legs _ —

“It was art, I was impartial,” he replies. The faint crack in his voice does him no favors, which is equally as frustrating because he  _ was _ impartial. He’s never been into bondage, never been his thing. His thing just happens to unfortunately be an exotic dancer that he can’t get out of his head.

“Uh-huh, sure,” Sam teases, but drops it. They watch the game in another companionable silence that’s broken only by Sam’s increased swearing as the score ticks up.

“You know what,” he says ten minutes later, sitting up to grab the remote from the coffee table and turn off the game, “fuck this, sports are boring. Let’s watch a movie instead.”

“Gee, this can’t be because you’re losing, can it?” Steve drawls.

Sam glares at him. “Just because I know I’d lose in a fight with you doesn’t mean I won’t start one.”

He opens up Netflix and begins scrolling through the titles silently while Steve nurses his beer and watches with amusement.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The door to Pierce’s office opens and he and another man step out. The stranger, portly and balding and dressed in a business suit, is staring at Bucky in a way that denotes lust, possession.

Steve gets his commission finished in the early hours of the morning, giving him the rest of the early afternoon to sleep in before getting ready. And maybe he styles his hair a little more carefully, and maybe he picks one of his nicer shirts, and  _ maybe _ he chooses the jeans he knows have gotten him hookups before. It’s absolutely not because of Bucky, no way. Steve’s just big on first impressions.

With traffic it takes him just over an hour to get there, the early-fall sky already darkening over the strip. The lights are on this time,  _ The Red Room _ lit up in, predictably, red neon. Steve stares at it through his windshield, hoping to god this isn’t a bad idea, before shutting the engine off and getting out of the car.

When he opens the door to the club this time there’s a lot more hustle than before: there are waiters setting up the bar; technicians checking the lights around the stages; bouncers milling around; dancers polishing up routines before heading backstage to get ready.

“You Rogers?” a deep, smoky voice says from somewhere behind him.

Steve turns around to see a tiny bombshell of a redhead standing there, hand on her hip. She’s clad in all black, from her tank top to her heavy Doc Martens. Her hair, long and wavy, spills over her shoulders.

He nods, then says, “Yeah, uh, that’s me.”

The redhead holds out her hand, and Steve takes it. “I’m Natasha. I’m shadowing you tonight to see how you do. If you’re lucky, you just might get to stay.” One corner of her full, purple-lipsticked mouth quirks up.

“Nice to meet you, ma’am,” Steve replies, but is hardly through the first syllable of the pleasantry when Natasha interrupts him.

“I appreciate the politeness,” she says, “but the last man who called me ‘ma’am’ got my knee in his balls.”

Steve blinks, momentarily at a loss.

“I’m just fucking with you,” Natasha says, grinning wide. “I mean, I did knee him in the balls, but it was because he was creepy as hell and deserved it. Anyway, follow me.”

She takes him to the storeroom first, showing him their inventory and where to find things if they run out.

“We have a guy named Barton who delivers liquor every Sunday evening, so if you’re working then it’s your job to sign off on everything and make sure inventory is correct,” she says. “He’s a pretty cool guy. He’s also my boyfriend, so hands off.”

Steve splutters, “I—I’m not—”

It sets Natasha to laughing. She shuts the door, then locks it with a little silver key she has on a ring in her pocket. “Relax, Rogers. Fucking with you. He’s as straight as a pole, anyway.”

As she walks him through setup and prep, Steve decides that Natasha is definitely one of the most interesting people he’s met. She was a professional dancer before she became an exotic dancer, then finally settled on being a bartender. She may also be almost half Steve’s height but comes off like she’s taller with her spitfire attitude that could put Steve’s to shame.

Once the doors open and patrons start coming in, he feels the first prickle of nerves as he stands behind the bar. He isn’t sure why getting this job is so important to him, but he’s loath to admit that part of the reason is a certain dancer.

And when that certain dancer takes the stage two hours into Steve’s training he knows he’s fucked, because if he had thought watching Bucky warm up was bad, then seeing him actually perform is a whole separate issue.

Steve’s trying to be incredibly mindful of the drink orders he’s mixing while also being hyper-aware of Natasha’s hawklike gaze on him, but it’s difficult when Bucky is on the main stage, hair down and gleaming, wearing nothing but a black thong and a pair of loose, heavy black combat boots.

Like any good strip club,  _ The Red Room _ encourages tipping the talent to show your appreciation, and the bills lining the stage (and the thin strap of Bucky’s thong) show just how much Bucky’s  _ appreciated _ . As he works, Steve can see why it’s not just Bucky’s handsome face that captivates the audience.

The way his body moves is effortless, seamless in how he goes from the pole to the edge of the stage and back. Steve’s seen it in big cats, the graceful way they stalk their prey, and it’s not  _ really _ what Bucky is doing, but his brooding looks and laser focus lends him that almost predatorial air that Steve’s sure is at least half the reason for his success, if not more.

The bright lights catch every inch of his tanned skin. The oil and body glitter that he puts on before going out makes his muscles glimmer individually, like they were each hand-carved by God himself to make all mortal, red-blooded humans go crazy.

Whatever song is playing is bass-heavy, reverberating deep in Steve’s chest; at every swell of the music Bucky drops to a wide squat and tosses his head back, balancing his forearms on his knees and thrusting his hips. The women crowded around the stage scream. Steve thinks he might pass out.

“Hey—Earth to Rogers.”

Natasha’s voice snaps him out of his sexually frustrated spiral where he’s currently thinking about how much he wishes he could find out just how strong Bucky’s thighs are. Guiltily, he whips his head to look at her.

She’s raised her eyebrows knowingly, the sharp wings of her eyeliner making her especially intimidating. “You gonna make that table’s Sex on the Beach orders or are you just gonna stare at James all night?”

Flustered at being caught (though not surprised, because he really has been staring all night), Steve hurries to get all seven drinks out for the table of middle-aged women celebrating a birthday or anniversary or whatever it is people come to strip clubs in groups for.

“Sorry, Natasha,” he says once the waiter has taken the drinks away. There’s a brief lull and he uses it to reorient himself, cleaning the bar with a rag and rearranging the glassware under the shelf. He takes a few deep breaths, fighting the urge to look towards the stages.

Natasha leans against the bar, smirking. “You’re not the first one, you know. Plenty of people stare, but everyone loves James. He didn’t get to be the main attraction just by being hot.”

“I’m not— _ objectifying  _ him!” Steve’s cheeks burn, because he totally is.

Natasha, clearly well-versed in bullshit, just laughs.

“Steve, his job is  _ literally _ to be objectified. He doesn’t care. In fact, he’d be flattered. I can’t believe someone like you actually applied to bartend at a strip club.”

Steve’s face grows warmer, but he ignores it. “I can’t tell if that’s meant to be insulting or reassuring,” he responds, though he’s desperately hoping it’s the latter. This isn’t exactly his ideal job, but it seems okay enough so far, even if he can hardly hear himself think over the music. There are a lot of women (and some men) tipping him far too much for what he’s doing, so he thinks he could get used to that.

“When I insult you, you’ll know,” Nat says, placing a glass under the valve for one of their IPAs and pulling the handle. Once it’s filled she sets the glass and a coaster in front of the man at the bar who ordered it and turns back to Steve. “Don’t worry, you’re doing fine. If you weren’t I would’ve kicked your ass out by now.”

Onstage, Bucky lifts himself up onto the pole and twirls around, first using his arms to support his weight, then his legs, his abdominals going taut as he swings from the top to the bottom. Jesus Christ, that core strength; it’s  _ insane _ . Steve’s been working out for over a decade and a half and he’s pretty sure he can’t even do that.

“I’m just not used to it,” Steve defends, tearing his eyes away and uncapping another Heineken for the man down a ways, sliding it to him. “The last and  _ only time _ I went to a strip club was in college.” Bucky finishes his routine with a kiss blown to the crowd. The cheers follow him as he sashays behind the curtain, the lights dimming as the DJ begins preparing for the next dancer.

“Was the experience that bad?” Natasha asks.

Really, Steve doesn’t hate anything about strip clubs and he certainly hadn’t hated it when he went, but he sincerely doubts he would’ve gone to another one if this job opportunity hadn’t presented itself. He’s always been more of a recluse, anyway, preferring to stay at home with his art and his books.

“It was fine. A lot less diverse than this one, that’s for sure,” he says, looking around at all of the lights and people. The club he’d gone to in college was a small place, like this one, with maybe three or four girls working at the time. “My expectations may have been too high, honestly.”

“See, that’s where movies have ruined the scene,” Natasha replies. “Everyone expects glitz and glamour and women with tits twice the size of their thighs.”

The night goes smoothly, thanks in part to Natasha, and by the time Bucky comes out for his last performance (in jean shorts that don’t even cover the curves of his ass, god help him ) Steve feels like he has a pretty good handle on the motions.

Bucky’s also the last performer of the night, so once he disappears behind the curtain Natasha instructs Steve to begin cleaning up as she announces last call to anyone still drinking at the bar.

As he cleans, Steve sees Bucky lingering outside of Pierce’s office. He’s still wearing the skimpy jean shorts, but now his hair is pulled into a messy ponytail, the loose strands curling prettily around the nape of his neck.

Steve’s only catching every other word that Natasha is saying as he scrubs the bartop. The door to Pierce’s office opens and he and another man step out. The stranger, portly and balding and dressed in a business suit, is staring at Bucky in a way that denotes lust, possession. Steve’s jaw clenches.

Pierce puts his hand on Bucky’s shoulder and begins talking. They’re tilted just enough that Steve can’t read their lips, but even from a distance it’s clear that something is off: Bucky won’t make eye contact, and there’s a resigned curve to his body as the two men talk over him.

The whole exchange takes maybe five minutes; then Pierce is steering Bucky towards the office with his hand still on his shoulder, leading him in first and entering after him. The man follows behind and shuts the door.

“—teve. Steve?”

Steve’s head whips back to find Natasha standing right behind him, her hand on her hip. He glances back, says, “Sorry. I was just watching...what goes on in Pierce’s office? I just saw Bucky go in there with him and some other man.”

Natasha gives him a look before shooing him out from behind the bar so that she can follow, saying, “Pierce has wealthy clients who pay pretty well for private shows. From what James has told me it’s the usual: lots of closeted businessmen who don’t want people to know their proclivities. So he gives some lap dances, does a few of his simpler stage routines, and he snags a couple hundred bucks for it, sometimes more depending on the person. I did my share of that at the beginning, too, and believe me, it’s good money.”

“Why don’t they ask you?” Steve asks, because it seems obvious that Natasha would be a top contender. It’s not like this is just a gay bar: there are just as many female dancers as there are male.

Natasha shakes her head. “I’m out of that game, Steve. I’m happy working the bar now. Besides, it’s become socially acceptable now for powerful men to seek this sort of thing out in private from women. They’re not gonna skulk around and pay extra to keep it under wraps with me like they will for men like James.”

Steve has to admit that she has a point.

“Besides,” Natasha continues, “you know what they say: never put all your eggs in one basket. Or whatever it is. I’m not in a rut with money right now like James is, so I’m sticking to that.”

“What kind of rut?” asks Steve, instantly concerned.

“Bad breakup. He never gave me the details but he’s been in it for awhile. If you ask me, his ex was a piece of work. He always treated James like he was property.” The words are said with disgust, Natasha’s mouth turned into a deep frown. “Before Brock came along he was a lot happier. I keep trying to ask how he’s doing after all of this, but he won’t tell me more than he has to. Hell, I barely got it out of him that Brock kicked him out in the first place.”

Steve gets the feeling that’s only part of it, but he doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t know Bucky well enough yet to have an opinion, much less one on something like this. They broke up, which is good, but knowing that it still lingers is an itch Steve’s going to keep scratching, and it probably won’t end well.

Bullies have always made his blood boil, but something about this makes him absolutely  _ burn _ . He pushes it to the back of his mind as he continues to help with the cleanup, and by the time they’re ready to shut the doors for the night at 4 a.m., almost a full hour after the last patrons left, Bucky still hasn’t returned.

“Is this normal?” Steve asks Natasha as they shut the doors behind them. He glances back, unable to help it and not sure why.

Natasha stops, then places a hand on Steve’s shoulder and levels him with a serious look. “You worry too much, Steve. I’ve seen James hand some people their asses for touching him inappropriately. There were nights I’d be in there until six in the morning. He’s fine. Now, I’m prepared to let the boss man know that I’d like to take you on if you’re still interested in the job.”

“Of course I am!” Steve immediately replies.

Natasha gives him a knowing smirk. “Just making sure. You good on Wednesday through Monday, open ‘til close?”

Steve thinks of the sleep he’ll never get but nods anyway.

“Perfect. That’s James’s schedule.”

She walks away as Steve squeaks indignantly in the dusky light.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i hope everyone is staying safe and healthy! i hope y'all don't mind the short chapter this time around. i wanted to use it to give a little more backstory before the plot started picking up!

Even though the sun is nearly up when he gets home he crashes as soon as he hits the bed, all of the adrenaline that comes with starting a new job wearing off in what seems like an instant.

He sleeps like the dead until almost two, then gets up and realizes what a mistake that was as he rushes around trying to get ready while also attempting to at least draw a line or  _ something _ on his next commission. Luckily Sam is at work, otherwise Steve would never hear the end of the “I told you so”s. God love him, but Sam is insufferable when he’s right, which is more often than Steve likes.

He does manage to get some more linework done before taking a quick shower, but doesn’t manage to grab anything substantial to eat before he has to book it out of the apartment. He settles for a bottle of water and a few power bars he can eat throughout the night.

Bucky’s talking to another dancer by one of the smaller stages when Steve walks through the doors. He’s wearing nothing but hotpants again, this time in a shiny black that accentuates the thick muscle of his thighs. Black eyeliner is slightly smudged around his eyes, making the blue-gray even more piercing.

When he looks over and sees Steve his grin widens, crinkling up those damnably pretty eyes, and he calls, “Look who it is. I thought for sure Nat would eat you up, and not in a good way.”

Trying to ignore the jittery feeling in his stomach, Steve replies, slightly uneven, “Nah, looks like you’re stuck with me.”

Bucky clicks his tongue, eyeing Steve up. “What a shame.”

Steve isn’t sure if Bucky is this flirty with everyone, or if he’s just the lucky recipient; either way he’s going to lose his goddamn mind at this rate. And it’s only day two.

The man standing beside Bucky is tall and lithe with silver-blond hair. He smiles bashfully when he holds out his hand and introduces himself as Pietro.

“You’re the new bartender, yes?” he asks with an accent Steve can’t place. He nods.

“Second day on the job.”

“Well, welcome,” Pietro says. “We go out sometimes on Monday nights, if you want to join.”

“In Manhattan,” Bucky adds. He makes a face. “None of us want to be in Jersey longer than we have to be.”

Steve isn’t one to go out very often (or at all), but he knows that Sam will bug him until he does once he mentions it to him. He hesitates, dragging his lower lip between his teeth, and finally says, “Yeah, sure. What time?”

And that’s how Steve ends up making plans with Bucky, Pietro, the huge blond bouncer that Steve has yet to talk to named Thor, and two other dancers that he hasn’t met yet. He feels a little overwhelmed at all of the attention by the time he makes it behind the bar to start prep.

“Hey there, Mr. Popular,” teases Natasha when she arrives. Steve rolls his eyes.

“Four people is hardly prom king material.”

“It is around here, stud.” She cuts lemons and limes into wedges with an almost terrifying efficiency while Steve sets about cleaning the bar area up. “My money was on you ignoring the invitation.”

“Hey,” responds Steve indignantly, pausing where he’s wiping out a pint glass with a rag. Natasha laughs, depositing her tiny mountains of citrus into their respective garnish trays on the counter.

“I’m not saying it like it’s a bad thing.”

“Coulda fooled me.”

“You know,” Natasha says. She puts her hand on the counter and turns to face him, scrutinizing him with the way her eyes track up to his face, then down his body, then back up. “You’re six feet tall, built like a tank, and yet you still walk around with your shoulders up to your ears. I don’t really judge a lot of people by their covers, but you’re easy enough to read that you may as well be open.”

Steve should really give Natasha more credit, because she’s just as astute as she seems.

“Would you believe me if I told you I used to be a short, skinny kid with asthma?” he says.

She looks him up and down, then shrugs. “I wouldn’t be surprised. Most people born with physical privilege embrace it.”

Steve had been nearly sixteen before his asthma went away, nearly eighteen before he’d gotten taller than five-foot-eight. Gym during college, and then boot camp and his time in the army helped carve his body into something he’d never thought possible. Every day since he’s been grateful for it.

“I spent a lotta time getting beat up,” he says eventually. “Always too scrawny, always too weak. I think that’s partially why I wanted to go into the army after college. Felt like I had to prove myself somehow, you know?”

Natasha’s lips thin briefly. “I grew up in a conservative, uptight household. They had me doing ballet at age six. I hated every second of it: the rigidity; the discipline; how it took over my entire life. The only thing I liked was being able to dance. When I turned eighteen and went to college, I started stripping. I was never happier, even with all the creepy guys who tried to touch me or get me to go to the back and blow them. I was saying fuck you to my parents the best way I knew how even if I never actually told them what I was doing. So, yeah, I get what it feels like to prove yourself.”

Of all the things Steve may have been expecting, it certainly wasn’t this. Natasha holds herself high with admirable strength, and in hindsight Steve supposes that it does make sense. When his ma died he’d been forced to let go of the carefree ease he hadn’t been fully aware he possessed, and it had changed him in ways he hadn’t expected.

Not wanting to make an ass out of himself, he says, “You’re pretty amazing, you know that?”

Luckily, all Natasha does it snort, though there’s a relieved slump to her shoulders that anyone not as perceptive as Steve would have missed. “Oh, fuck off, Rogers, and get to work.”

The same thing happens at the end of the night as Steve and Natasha are cleaning up: Bucky waits outside of Pierce’s office in the costume from his last performance until the door opens; Pierce and the stranger next to him (another nondescript middle-aged white man whose very presence sets Steve’s teeth on edge) talk briefly; then Pierce leads Bucky in first and shuts the door behind them.

It seems innocent enough. No one is dragging Bucky in against his will, there aren’t any muffled noises that could be construed as cries for help. Bucky seems fine whenever Steve sees him the next day.

Then why isn’t he able to get that resigned look on Bucky’s face out of his head?


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay, i know i said it would be longer, and it is! just not by much. this chapter will just work better on its own i promise.

On Monday, Steve both welcomes and dreads the thought of drinks. Natasha had texted him earlier in the morning to tell him that they’re going to a bar near Union, someplace quiet but with good food and a killer happy hour special.

On one hand, it _will_ be nice, he admits to himself as he gets ready, to actually make some new friends and learn more about his coworkers away from the club. On the other, Steve is terrible at smalltalk and he worries that everyone—and more specifically, _Bucky_ —will find him boring.

The subway is delayed, so by the time Steve reaches the bar he’s almost a half-hour late and more nervous than he’d be if he had actually been on time.

Everyone is gathered in a circular booth towards the back. A large pitcher of beer is in the middle of the table, its contents half gone. Steve absently notes that everyone is here, and doesn’t let himself dwell on the fact that the first person that he checked for in the group was Bucky, seated off to the corner with Natasha on his right and Thor on his left.

It’s strange to see Bucky fully-clothed, which makes Steve think of how weird his job is again. Bucky’s hair is up, as always. But under Bucky’s simple dark blue polo there’s none of his usual flamboyant charisma, that magnetic personality that initially drew Steve helpfully towards him. Instead he stirs his drink absently with its little red straw, eyes far away.

Steve slides in next to Natasha, who immediately pours him a glass, then introduces him to the two women he hasn’t met yet: Valkyrie, a young black woman who assures Steve it is, in fact, her real name; and Wanda, a pale redhead who is apparently Pietro’s sister and who doesn’t actually dance.

“I did,” she explains in a mirror of Pietro’s accent. “Now I handle costumes.”

“Handle costumes.” Pietro scoffs, flapping his hand. “She orders skimpy little things from the internet.

Wanda slaps his arm indignantly, but her mouth curves at the corner. “Do not give my secrets out!”

Valkyrie rests her elbow on the table. “Where are you from, Steve?” She toys with the skewer in her martini as she blatantly eyes him up. Catching him looking, she winks and adds, “Don’t worry, beefcake. I’m as gay as the day is long, but I know how to appreciate a man stacked as finely as you.”

Steve’s cheeks burn hot, and he takes a gulp of his beer to try to hide it, appreciating its crisp coolness against his tongue. “Thanks? I guess. Uh, I’m from Brooklyn. Born and raised. Started out in Red Hook and now I live in Prospect Park.”

Thor overhears and booms, “Ah, a Brooklyn boy just like Bucky!”

From his seat Bucky appears to hunch a little. Steve looks at him in surprise and says, “Really? Where at?”

Bucky licks his lower lip and hesitates. Steve absolutely does not follow that movement. Bucky takes a long drink before he says, “Bed-Stuy. Since I was a kid.”

Steve blinks in surprise. What are the odds? He says as much, and Bucky looks at him with a half-smile.

“Seems like it’s fate,” he says, tipping back the last of his drink.

Steve, ever eager to please, says, “What is that, a Jack and Coke? I can get you another.”

Bucky shakes his head. “Nah, I don’t drink. It’s just a Coke and I’ve got it.”

He slides out of the booth. Natasha nudges Steve’s shoulder like she’s noticed his dejected hangdog look. Knowing Natasha, she probably has.

“Don’t feel bad,” she says. “He’s always like that outside of work. He still thinks you’re hot.”

“Natasha!” Steve hisses, looking around. The rest of the table is too involved in their own conversations, thankfully, but _still_

Natasha rolls her eyes. “Re _lax_ , Steve. I’m just saying you’re exactly James’s type.”

Steve says, “I am?” before he can stop his stupid mouth. A sly look crosses Natasha’s face and he adds immediately, “Don’t. Do _not_.”

“Don’t what?” Natasha asks innocently, taking a sip of her drink.

“He’s my _coworker_.”

“Look, I don’t usually condone it, but we’ve all been trying to set him up since he broke up with Brock, and every time he shoots us down. We just want him to be happy.”

Steve looks to where Bucky is still at the bar waiting to get the bartender’s attention. The span of his shoulders stretches the fabric of his polo shirt, and even in plain jeans his ass looks good. Given that he is single, Steve is surprised that Bucky isn’t wearing something meant to draw attention to himself. It’s possible that Bucky is shy outside of work, but somehow Steve doubts that there's anything about his body that Bucky is shy about.

He drains the rest of his beer, then hesitates. The pitcher still has enough left for at least one more glass, but, emboldened by either Natasha’s words or his own recklessness he excuses himself and heads up to the bar.

Bucky doesn’t notice him right away, so Steve takes the momentary ignorance to think up something that’s a little more than the “Uh, hey” he’s currently planning.

Of course, the second Bucky turns to him and fixes those grey-blue eyes everything Steve was thinking of saying leaves his mind. “Uh. Hey.”

Smooth.

“Hey. You need a drink?” asks Bucky. “You may be here awhile.” His mouth twists in annoyance.

Steve looks down at the bar. The bartender is currently schmoozing it up with three attractive women, all of whom look like they could care less. Saying a quick “Be right back” to Bucky, he heads down that way, easing his way through the crowd until he comes to a stop behind the group of women.

“Ladies,” he says, staring directly at the bartender. “Is this man bothering you?”

The one on Steve’s right, a brunette with long, shiny waves, looks back at him gratefully. Her two friends edge towards him.

The bartender, however, levels him with a glare.

“It’s called hospitality, and I’m not hearing any complaints. Do you see me coming to your work to critique you?”

Steve squares his shoulders and tips his chin up. He knows how intimidating his bulk is, and right on cue the bartender shies back, just slightly. Steve contemplated letting his former military rank slip for added effect, then decided this asshole isn’t worth it.

He says, low and even, “Looks to me like it’s unwanted, pal, and you wouldn’t have to critique me because, as a fellow bartender, I know when to leave people the hell alone. Now are you gonna serve the rest of the bar or should I have a chat with your manager about harassment?”

The bartender looks like he’d rather punch Steve in the face, but begrudgingly leaves the women alone to tend to the rest of the patrons. Steve huffs out a breath as he goes, waving off the women’s offers to buy him a drink.

When Steve returns Bucky has a fresh glass of Coke and an unreadable look in his eyes as he watches him approach.

“You really enjoy wearing that knight in shining armor mask, huh?” he asks after a beat.

Shrugging, Steve leans against the countertop. “No, I just don’t like bullies. Or men who don’t know how to leave women alone.”

“What about other men?”

Steve looks at Bucky. “What do you mean?”

Bucky shakes his head quickly, setting his drink down with a clink that’s just on this side of too forceful. The ice rattles. “Never mind. Just...never mind. It suits you, you know. The whole savior thing.”

A flush warms Steve’s cheeks, and he hopes it’s dim enough in the bar that it doesn’t show. “I’m not a savior, Bucky.

“Those women probably think otherwise,” replies Bucky with a half-grin. He takes a drink, then says, “Weren’t you going to get anything?”

“Huh?” Steve looks down, then back up. “Oh, yeah. I’m fine. I don’t drink that much. Besides, I doubt that bartender is going to be serving me anytime soon.”

This time when Bucky smiles it’s wide enough to crinkle the corners of his eyes. God help him but Steve loves it. “Yeah,” he says. “Probably not. But you, a bartender, not drinking much? I feel like that’s an oxymoron.”

Steve laughs. “Honestly, I got into it more because my friends wanted to go to a lot of bars during college when we could all barely afford rent and bills. So I got some books, took some online courses, figured why the hell not.”

“So why do it at a strip club, then?” Bucky mirrors Steve’s position, tilting his head slightly.

Steve shrugs, resists the urge to rub at the back of his neck like he always does when he gets shy. “I’m a freelancer by day. Art, graphic design, stuff like that. This worked with that schedule.”

Bucky searches his face, then smiles briefly before it falls again. “You’re too good for that place, Steve.” He finishes his drink, sets the glass down and throws a few bills on the bar. “I gotta go, but it was real nice getting to actually talk to you, Steve.”

“Buck, wait—” Steve starts, but Bucky waves him off, slides through the crowd, and disappears.

“Where’s James?” Natasha asks when Steve slides back in next to her. No one else has touched the pitcher, so Steve pours the rest into his abandoned glass and downs most of it in one long drink.

“He said he had to go,” Steve eventually says. “No reason why, just up and left.”

Natasha looks towards the doors, brows furrowed. “I’m sure he’s fine. He’s probably tired.”

She doesn’t sound too sure, but before Steve can ask she turns to him and slings an arm over his shoulder. “C’mon, no one knows anything about you, enlighten them. Thor’s buying another pitcher.”


	5. Chapter 5

The next morning dawns cool and milky, a thick shroud of clouds over the sky. While Sam locks the door to their apartment behind him Steve zips his running jacket, pulling one leg up to stretch his hamstring, then the other.

“Ready to lose?” asks Sam, pocketing his keys before they descend the stairs from their second-floor walkup.

Steve cuts a glance at him and grins. “Shouldn’t I be asking you that?”

“Oh, that’s how it is?” Sam replies, pursing his lips as he gives Steve his most unimpressed face that Steve one-hundred-percent doesn’t believe at this stage in their friendship.

“That’s how it is,” Steve confirms as they step outside. He takes a deep breath, letting the brisk air fill his lungs. It’s exhaled in a mist that always brings an inordinate amount of joy.. “Whaddaya say, loser buys breakfast?”

“Then I say you’d better be ready to fork out some serious cash,” Sam says, “because I’m gonna be pretty hungry once I kick your ass.”

  
  


They end up at their favorite diner an hour later, Steve’s wallet on the table and a breakfast special in front of both of them.

“So how’s the new gig going?” asks Sam. “What’s it like watching strippers every night? Is it as rewarding as it sounds?”

Steve watches him douse his pancakes in syrup, biting the inside of his lip to keep from smiling. For all that Sam preaches healthy eating after exercise, pancakes are always his downfall. “It’s going well. Natasha is a hardass but I love her for it. And no, I’m too busy making drinks to watch the routines most of the time.”

“Someone’s gotta stay on you,” Sam sagely replies. He takes a drink of his coffee and says, “So what about the dancers? Any cute guys catch your eye?”

Steve nearly chokes on his bacon. “Sam!”

“What? As your wingman and best friend it’s my solemn duty to make sure you get back out into the dating world. You’ve been celibate for too long, my man.”

“My special ops stint not a good enough excuse?”

“The fact that you’re trying to use  _ any _ excuse proves my point.”

Steve sighs, rubbing his hands over his face. Sometimes he really hates how well Sam knows him. He’s aware at how much he lucked out during his stint; too many of the guys he’d toured with, both army and special forces, had come back crippled with PTSD that Steve can’t even imagine. And sure, he’s got his own bad days, doesn’t much like the sound of fireworks anymore (a true shame, given his birthday), but he sleeps through the night most nights and all in all isn’t too much worse than when he’d left.

“If I tell you,” Steve eventually says, spearing a forkful of scrambled eggs, “you are  _ not _ allowed to meddle.”

Sam raises his hands. “No meddling, none.”

Just barely biting back another sigh Steve chews his forkful of eggs, then swallows and says, “So there’s a guy.  _ No interrupting _ , I see you. And—you cannot laugh at this, I swear to god—he’s a dancer.”

Sam absolutely looks like he wants to laugh, but one glare from Steve has him tamping down his grin and trying to look innocent. “Go on, I’m still listening.”

“Anyway,” Steve continues, rolling his eyes. “He’s really cute and exactly my type, but when we all went out last night he didn’t seem interested at all, so, I don’t know, maybe I read his signals wrong or something. ‘Cause he’s really flirty at work, like  _ really flirty _ , but last night he was quiet and didn’t really talk that much.”

“Maybe he’s shy,” Sam supplies. “Sometimes people are like that: they choose a job they can be really outgoing at, but on their own time they’re the opposite.”

“That’s what Natasha said. But...I dunno. It just seemed odd.”

“You think too much, Steve,” Sam says, pointing his fork at him. “Maybe he wasn’t feeling it, maybe he had a bad night. You don’t know. What  _ I _ know is that if you give up I will meddle, and you know I mean it. You deserve happiness just as much as the rest of us.”

His tone softens at the end of it. Steve takes a long drink of his coffee to hide the way his throat tightens. He hasn’t had anyone in his life since his ma passed who actually  _ cares _ , and it’s overwhelming sometimes, the way it hits him.

“Thanks, Sam,” he says. “It means a lot.”

Sam waves it off, saying, “Seriously, Steve, you’re my friend. Of course I want you to be happy. And maybe see you leave the apartment once in a while for a reason that doesn’t have to do with work.”

They finish their breakfast and walk back, too full to bother trying to run again, for Steve to get ready.

Tuesdays are group therapy days. Usually Steve doesn’t mind them too much—by his own admission he’s always been better at giving advice than taking it—but he still can’t stop thinking about how Bucky had acted at the bar the previous night.

It’s not his business or his place, he reminds himself as he walks into the room and takes a seat in one of the uncomfortable plastic chairs. Bucky is his coworker, not his acquaintance or friend. He doesn’t need to get involved in his life. Still, it’s eating him inside, and he’s thinking about it so hard he almost doesn’t hear Carol, who heads these meetings, say, “Steve, do you want to start?”

He jerks a little in his seat out of surprise, then looks around the room. He’s already talked to Sam, but oh well. “Oh. Sure. I started a new job. It’s bartending at a club during nights. It’s not too bad so far, I’m still learning the ropes.”

Carol smiles at him. “That’s great, Steve. You still freelance, right?"

Steve nods. “Yeah. I didn’t realize that it would be so difficult to maintain the two, but I’m still learning. My coworkers are pretty great, though, so they make the late hours worth it.”

He hesitates, thinking about Bucky, the uncertainty, all the questions he’s been harboring since last night. Looking around the room he clams up, fidgeting his hands in his lap. It’s one thing to tell Sam, it’s another to be open for an entire group, no matter how well they all know each other.

“Have you bartended before?”

It’s Maria, a fellow former captain with a no-nonsense attitude, who asks it. Steve thinks that, in another life, he may have been intimidated by her. “Just for friends, never anything professional. Luckily the club needed another bartender and were willing to hire right away.”

“Do you like it?” Carol asks.

Steve shrugs. “It’s not too bad, and it pays pretty well. Not exactly my dream job, but it is what it is.”

“And you said your coworkers are good?”

“Yeah, they’re all really nice. And, uh.” Here Steve stops, feeling heat creep up the back of his neck.

Of course Carol, ever observant, catches on to his hesitation and prods, “What is it?”

The heat races all the way up to the tips of Steve’s ears. “There’s a guy, and he’s really cute, but I feel like he isn’t, ah, interested. We all went out last night and I made a move but he kind of blew me off.”

“Maybe he’s just shy,” Maria says. “If he bats for your team there’s no way he’s not interested in you.”

Chuckles go around the room, and Steve ducks his head. Maria has a point; Bucky had certainly  _ seemed  _ interested at first. “Well. Our coworker did say that he’d had a pretty rough breakup not that long ago. He might still be recovering from that. And I spoke to my roommate about it after our run this morning and he basically said the same thing, so maybe it’s just me being too scared of rejection.”

“See, there you have it.” Maria sits back, looking satisfied.

Carol nods. “Every single one of us here knows how difficult recovery is, even if the circumstances are different. And we all recover at different speeds.” She looks at Steve. “I’m really glad you’re feeling confident enough to get yourself back out there, Steve. Rejection is scary, but you can’t let that hold you back, especially in circumstances like this.”

Then, looking around the room, she asks, “Who wants to go next?”

——

The next week at work assuages Steve’s fear, or so it seems: Bucky remains just as flirty as ever, finding Steve sometimes when he’s on stage to throw him a wink before doing something filthy, like hanging upside down on the pole with a leg spread wide; or, on one memorable occasion where Steve almost dropped an entire tray of drinks, twerking like his life depended on it.

So maybe he blew it out of proportion. Maybe Bucky did actually have a bad night at the bar and didn’t want to talk. Steve wants to ask him about it, but every night he disappears into Pierce’s office while Steve and Natasha are cleaning up the bar and balancing the register.

On Saturday night Steve is doing a final sweep of the club right after closing, Natasha back in the mini-kitchen where they wash the glasses every night, when two men dressed in suits come in through the side door. Pierce had mentioned guests coming after hours for Bucky, so Steve doesn’t think much of it as they walk towards Pierce’s office.

“Remember what happened last month?” the taller one, a white man with a receding hairline, says. “I don’t want to have to deal with that shit again.”

“After the correction Pierce gave while we were there I would hope so,” the other man, younger with dark hair and ruggedly handsome features, replies.

They reach the door and open it, shutting it before Steve, who was offered an obstructed view of inside, can see. Something sits wrong in his chest, a tight knot that makes him walk closer, holding his breath. He can faintly make out Pierce’s voice, then what sounds like Bucky’s.

“You’ll do what I say,” Pierce is saying, faint. “I don’t know why I need to keep spelling this out week after week. You don’t want to embarrass me in front of our esteemed guests, do you?”

“I’m sorry— _ I’m sorry _ , I said I’m sorry!” A thud, the screech of wood against the floor. Silence follows it, stretching on for what feels like minutes, before music turns on and the low thud of the bass drums out anything else.

“Steve?”

Natasha’s voice makes him jump. She’s standing by the bar, eyebrows raised. “Are you finished cleaning up?” she asks.

Sheepishly, Steve nods. Thank god he’d actually finished before Natasha had caught him essentially spying. “You ready to lock up?”

Natasha nods, but her calculating stare doesn’t lessen. “Are you checking up on James?”

Glancing back at the door, Steve sighs and says, “I was...I thought I heard something. It sounded like Pierce was angry.”

He makes his way over to Natasha, hands in his pockets as she grabs her stuff from behind the bar. Natasha looks back at him as she’s putting on her coat, then says, “James and Pierce don’t always see eye-to-eye, that’s nothing new. He’s fine, seriously. Don’t worry about it.”

“I know,” replies Steve, grabbing his own coat and shrugging it on. And he  _ does _ . Things just feel off-kilter, like he’s stepped on an uneven surface invisible to the eye. It’s not right, but he isn’t able to show  _ how _ , besides snippets of a conversation with no context that could mean anything. “When I see a situation pointed south, even if I’m imagining it, I can't ignore it.”

Smiling, Natasha shakes her head. “You’re too noble for this job, Steve.”

_ Selfish _ , Steve thinks.  _ So incredibly selfish because I have a crush on Bucky, and we’ve had a total of one conversation outside of work that didn’t involve come-ons, and I’m worried. _

All he says is, “Don’t I know it.” Then he knocks his shoulder to Natasha’s, returns his smile, and heads to his car.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the long wait! you would think quarantine would be a font for writing opportunity (hint: it's not) but i've been stressed. i hope everyone out there is safe and well!

Steve doesn’t sleep.

When he gets home, he tries. Methodically he gets ready for bed: brushes his teeth and strips down until he’s in his boxer-briefs; then he turns off the bedroom light and climbs into bed, pulling the covers all the way up to his chin. But sleep doesn’t come. Instead, his brain is buzzing, turning thoughts over and over in his mind like a washing machine.

He thinks about the club. Thinks about Bucky’s voice, hidden behind that locked door, apologizing. Then the scrape of moving furniture. Steve stares at the ceiling. Tries desperately not to wonder what that meant.

He hasn’t really talked to Pierce since the interview; it doesn’t seem like he’s around for much besides...whatever it is with Bucky. Which, Steve supposes, isn’t that abnormal: Pierce  _ does _ own the club and probably has more to do than make conversation with a lowly bartender.

On one hand, he’s grateful. Pierce’s attitude makes his lip curl, and he’s never had a good poker face. On the other, it makes Steve all the more desperate to see him, because at least if he sees him he might get an inkling of what those private shows actually entail.

Natasha’s reassurances don’t sit well with him, either. Steve likes to think he’s pretty intuitive, especially because his gut alone has gotten him through more than one tough mission. Natasha may have been working at the  _ Red Room _ longer and knows Pierce and Bucky better, but Steve is still uneasy.

That unease is what has him unplugging his phone and dialing Natasha without even thinking about it. It rings twice before she answers.

_ “Rogers? It’s nearly five, shouldn't you be asleep?” _

“I think something is wrong, Natasha,” Steve says without preamble.

A pause. Steve grips his phone tighter, presses it closer to his ear as he waits. Outside his window, behind the curtains, the sun has begun to rise, entrenching his room in the muted blue-gray of early morning.

_ “What do you mean?” _ Natasha eventually asks, her tone even, unrevealing.

“I think something is wrong. With Bucky, I mean. I heard something earlier, when I was walking past Pierce’s office. It sounded like Bucky was apologizing, but not about something small. More like...like when you’re a kid, and you know your ma is gonna be pissed because you broke something.”

It’s not a perfect analogy, but it’s all Steve can come up with at the moment. It hadn’t been like when Bucky had apologized to Pierce the day of Steve’s interview; this was stressed, scared. Like he knew something bad was going to happen. Steve opens his mouth to mention the scrape of furniture, but closes it again.

_ “Pierce has a temper,” _ Natasha replies.  _ “Everyone knows that. It’s not anything new.” _

“Natasha—”

Natasha cuts him off.  _ “Steve. Pierce can be a bit of an asshole, I think we all realize that. But what you’re suggesting goes a lot further than reporting your boss because he yells at you occasionally.” _

Steve  _ knows _ . It’s why he called Natasha at five in the morning. There isn’t a lot to go on besides his instinct, but Natasha has struck him as someone with more to tell from the moment they first met, and he wants to take his chance before he loses the opportunity or his nerve again.

“You know something,” Steve says. “Don’t you?”

_ “No more than you do.” _

“Bullshit.”

Natasha remains silent for a few moments.  _ “Longevity does not equal knowledge,” _ she finally says. Just as cryptic as ever. Steve isn’t sure why he’s surprised. Natasha speaks in riddles and half-sentences more often than not, so now wouldn’t be any different.

With a sigh, he says, “Natasha. Please.”

_ “You have a very overactive imagination, Steve. You know I would tell you if I knew something was wrong.” _

Somehow, her reassurance has the opposite effect, and Steve bites out, “Would you?” before he can stop himself.

_ “I’ve known him longer than you,”  _ Natasha immediately replies, icy.  _ “He’s fine. Go to bed, I don’t want to be carrying your ass tonight during your shift.” _

A click indicates she hung up, and Steve sighs again. He’ll have to apologize when he gets to work. It’s his fault for going too far, like he always does. Like a dog with a bone, his ma would tease.

Dropping his phone face down on his bed he scrubs his palms over his face. Maybe she’s right, maybe he is overreacting. The furniture moving could, realistically, mean anything from rearranging the office to someone accidentally bumping into it. It’s not exactly a large office, and if Steve’s correct there were four men in there at the time.

And, well. Natasha is right. Pierce  _ is _ an asshole.

Steve’s arms flop to his sides. He stares up at the ceiling, the room slowly turning lighter, and tries to sleep.

——

A month goes by without anything else happening, and Steve reluctantly lets it shift to the back of his mind. Bucky, Steve discovers after getting to know him better, is actually a bit of a space nerd and grew up wanting to be an astronaut. He likes guacamole but hates plain avocado. He doesn’t drink because his father was an alcoholic and left his mom when he was thirteen.

They go out with the group a few more times, and every time Bucky is still quiet and reserved, hunched in his own little space, though he does gradually make more of a concerted effort to talk to Steve. Bucky, Steve’s discovered, opens up slowly, like a late-blooming flower. And once he does he’s more beautiful than ever.

Their last get-together Steve had learned that Bucky had a sister—“Becca,” he said, twirling his straw in his Coke like always. The rest of the group laughed raucously around them and Steve moved closer to hear what Bucky was saying. Their shoulders brushed and Bucky leaned in—consciously or unconsciously, Steve doesn’t know. “She’s five years younger than me, but people always thought we were twins.”

“What does she do?”

“Engineering,” Bucky replied, resting his chin on his hand. His full lips curved into a soft smile. “Both of us are really good at math, Becca just made the better life choices.”

Steve bit his tongue hard so he didn’t say something stupid like  _ but then I wouldn’t have met you _ and instead asked, “Do you talk often?”

At that Bucky actually colored and sheepishly admitted, “She calls a few times a week to check on me even though I’m the older one.”

“That’s so cute,” Steve said, then immediately slapped his hand over his mouth. Beer loosens his tongue way too much and somehow he’s never learned his lesson. “Oh my god I did not mean to say that. I’m sorry.”

Bucky laughed, looked at Steve a little shyly. How many layers did this man have, Steve wondered, to be so quiet and easily flustered when alone, but so brazen and unaffected when in front of crowds of people? He had a habit, Steve noticed, of tucking his long hair behind his ears when embarrassed or nervous, and he did it now.

“That’s why I don’t drink,” Bucky teased after a few seconds, dragging his lower lip between his teeth before releasing it. His eyes seemed to dart down, or was that a trick of the dim lighting of the bar? “Makes me say things I don’t want to.”

In that span of a month he and Bucky develop a rapport that is...well, it’s still a lot of flirting and innuendo on Bucky’s end, but now he sometimes stops by the bar in between sets, or on his breaks, and Steve will give him a soda water and they’ll talk about other things.

On this particular night at the club Bucky is dressed in his black leather thong and black combat boots, hip propped against the bar like there aren’t at least a dozen people openly staring at him. Steve is desperately trying not to be one of them, but it’s difficult when Bucky maintains a summer tan year-round and looks like  _ that _ . At the other end of the bar Natasha is mixing drinks for a group, but Steve is pretty sure he sees her look back and shoot him a sly grin.

“Shouldn’t you be getting ready?” asks Steve, eyebrow raised while he cleans a glass.

Bucky downs the last of his soda water. “I’ll be fine, I’ve still got fifteen minutes. ‘Sides, I know this routine like the back of my hand. Just wanted to spend some time with you.”

He hands Steve the glass, looking up at him from under his lashes. Steve takes it while trying to fight off a blush, storing the clean glass back under the bar. It’s a losing battle, and the way Bucky smirks shows that he hadn’t missed it. Damn Steve’s Irish complexion to hell.

“Flattery will get you nowhere, Barnes,” Steve replies, going for aloof and knowing that he’s failed miserably by the airiness of his voice.

“On the contrary, sweetheart,” Bucky drawls. “It gets me  _ everywhere _ .” Placing his elbows on the bar he leans forward, the muscles in his arms straining, his skin dusted with silver flecks of glitter and shining with oil. Sometimes Steve forgets how icy blue Bucky’s eyes are, how it feels when they’re staring directly at you. Especially now, lined like they are with soft black kohl that makes them appear bigger, the blue even bluer.

God, Steve is  _ so fucking weak _ .

He meets those eyes and tries to retain some sort of composure. “Does that line actually work on anyone?”

“You tell me,” Bucky says, then winks. “Gotta go get ready, handsome. Hope to see you watching.”

As if Steve has the power  _ not _ to.

  
  


Around one he takes his break, leaving Natasha behind the bar. It tends to quiet down this time of the night, but falls into something steadier and less frenetic. The tech team sets up for the next routine after Pietro leaves, and more tables clustered around the main stage are more empty than they are full.

Sometimes Steve heads to the dressing room to talk to the dancers, like he does tonight. The atmosphere is colorful, laid back but energetic; Steve loves the easy camaraderie between everyone, and especially loves the stories he hears about drunk patrons.

“Steve,” Pietro says, toweling the sweat off his neck, “I need you to go easy on the alcohol, yeah? Too many middle-aged women keep grabbing my ass.”

Steve chuckles, and Wanda laughs where she’s organizing the roll-away rack of costume pieces. Steve had been surprised when he’d first seen just how many different garments and accessories there were: there are the standard thongs, of course, and the short shorts; but there are also cuff bracelets; neckties and bowties; vests in every color and style; and  _ shoes _ , so many shoes from cowboy boots to lucite heels that make Steve’s feet ache just looking at them.

“You knew what would happen when you got the job,” Wanda says. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

Valkyrie, who’s carefully applying her eyeliner in sharp black points, regards Steve in her mirror. Her routine tonight is to “Love Is A Battlefield,” so she’s wearing a thong made to look like, essentially, a loincloth, as well as knee-high combat boots in a rich brown and a metallic bra that Steve thinks is supposed to look like armor.

It’s all a bit on the nose for him, but then again, that’s why he never frequented strip clubs before.

“You enjoying it still?” she asks, capping her eyeliner pen and taking a step back to turn and face him.

“I’m keeping tabs on how many people a night tell me I should be on the stage instead,” Steve wryly replies, and the room laughs.

“They are not wrong,” Wanda replies, hanging up a glittery blue vest and arching one perfectly-sculpted red eyebrow. “It truly is a pity that you cannot dance, Steve. I have so many outfits perfect for that tiny waist of yours.”

“Maybe we can give him some lessons,” Valkyrie supplies. The smirk she sends Steve’s way is sly.

The tips of Steve’s ears flame. “No! God no. You want to draw business in, not chase it away.”

“You can just put him up there with me,” another voice says. “People would lose their goddamn minds.”

Bucky struts into the room, cocky and confident, and plants himself directly in front of Steve’s chair. He’s still in his short denim shorts and boots. Steve looks up, and Valkyrie says, “To do what? You hog that stage, Barnes.”

Bucky scoffs, like it’s obvious. “It’s the sexual  _ tension _ . Right, Steve? You wanna fuck me, don’t you? C’mon, I know you do. Everyone wants to!”

He throws his arms up theatrically at that, swaying a little where he stands. The grin he gives Steve is both uneven and too wide, and it makes something sour rise up in the back of Steve’s throat.

It’s almost like Bucky’s drunk, with the way his words slur together and his eyes have trouble focusing. But Bucky doesn’t drink, and as a general rule the club doesn’t allow alcohol backstage to prevent things from getting out of hand. And when Steve last saw Bucky a few hours ago when he left the bar he was completely sober.

Steve doesn’t want to think the worst, but that’s difficult when Bucky is standing there about as steady as a newborn calf. In his time Steve’s seen his fair share of people under the influence, and right now Bucky shouldn’t even be able to stand, much less walk. And he certainly is  _ not _ able to consent to sex.

It reminds Steve of his roommate in college, how he’d look and act when he’d come home high on whatever uppers he’d taken that night. They always took away his filter and made him loud and boisterous, and Bucky, though flirty, never outright says anything like that.

Carefully Steve says, “Why would you think that, Buck?” never mind the fact that Bucky is absolutely correct. Of  _ course _ Steve wants to fuck him; he’s only human. But he isn’t going to tell the entire damn workplace that he’s thought about it—though, thanks to Bucky, he doesn’t need to now.

“You’re a terrible liar, Steve,” replies Bucky, pointing at him.

Everyone is looking but trying not to: judging by their silence and nonreaction this is more common than Steve thought, and that’s more than enough to make worry slither cold down his spine and spur him into action.

Gently taking Bucky’s elbow, Steve steers them off to the quiet, deserted hallway. Bucky goes easily enough, though he does stumble when they stop.

“Are you okay, Bucky?” Steve asks apprehensively, using the hand still on Bucky’s arm to support him. The answer is clearly no, but Steve needs to hear it from Bucky himself. Needs to...he doesn’t know, does he? What does he  _ do _ in this kind of situation?

Bucky scoffs. He takes Steve’s hand off his arm and crosses both over his bare chest. “‘Course I am. Never been better.”

Steve’s heart sinks.

There is nothing about this that is okay, not with Bucky’s dilated pupils and jerky movements. Luckily he doesn’t have another set to perform tonight, but there’s no way he’s going to be able to get home safely by himself. Come to think of it, Steve doesn’t know how Bucky gets home, if he drives or takes the train into the city and the subway from there.

So he asks, “Are you going home after this? Can I take you?”

Everything about this sets him on edge: the Bucky he knows is perfectly composed no matter the hour. It's almost too easy to forget that Steve knows that Bucky well, has made him laugh and learned things about his personal life he hasn't told anyone else. That Bucky is always witty, flirty, sharp as a tack in every aspect. Steve’s even seen him nearly punch a guy that got too handsy one night.

But this Bucky? This Bucky is none of those things.

“Nah.” Bucky shakes his head vigorously, sending his loose hair flying around his face. It makes him take another unsteady step forward, and he briefly grabs onto Steve’s forearm before regaining his balance and withdrawing his grip. “Can’t. I gotta go with Pierce in a bit. He’ll make sure I get home safe. He always does.”

It feels like Steve’s stomach, where his heart already is, could sink into the floor right now and drag him under completely. The words catch in his throat like barbs when he says, “Where does he…” then changes tactics and bluntly asks, “Does Pierce always take you home?”

“Most of the time. Sometimes—sometimes I go home with him, ‘cause it’s easier.”

Steve swallows hard. “Do you trust him?”

Bucky shrugs, reaching up to push back a few strands of hair that have fallen across his forehead. His forehead crinkles as his brow furrows, but eventually he meets Steve’s eyes with those glassy ones. “He makes sure I’m safe at the end of the night. ‘s all I need.”

It’s not a yes and it’s not a no, and that makes it worse. It makes Steve want to hold Bucky close. It makes him want to protect Bucky from... _ whatever _ this is.  _ If _ it is anything. Natasha’s words from that early-morning phone call echo in his mind.

“Buck, please. Let me take you home,” Steve tries again. “You still live in Brooklyn, right? It won’t be any trouble for me at all.”

The genial attitude when Steve says that dissipates immediately, and Bucky glares hard at him, stepping back to put some distance between them. “You don’t get it. I don’t—need your help. You don’t need to get mixed up in...in all this. Just go home, Steve.”

“Mixed up in what?” Steve tries. His heart beats faster in his chest. Natasha’s words, again. “What do you mean? Bucky?”

Bucky, already walking away, only says, “I have to go meet Pierce and his guests. I can’t be late again.”

Then he turns the corner and disappears.


	7. Chapter 7

There’s a reason that Steve was a captain in the army, and it was only partially due to his intimidating physique. By his own admission Steve is a genius tactician, gifted with an ability to plan strategies with a near-perfect success rate, which also led to his eventual black-ops career. Sam likes to say that Steve’s a tactician with no tact; Steve can’t deny the nugget of truth there.

Most of his life has been about helping people in one way or another: his ma; his friends; anyone knocked down and struggling to get back up. It’s automatic, that urge, coming to him as quick as breathing. If he sees someone in trouble, he can’t just ignore it. He doesn’t like bullies, no matter where they're from—a childhood of broken noses and busted knuckles proves that.

Looking back, maybe his penchant for taking things into his own hands hadn’t exactly equated to stellar results every time. In his early twenties Steve was still hotheaded, determined to prove himself by any measure necessary to make up for all the years spent as a scrawny, bullied kid. Fists don’t solve everything, and neither does barreling headfirst into conflict with no backup place. He can’t risk it, not with this.

Stubborn, impatient, and determined, Steve’s going to get to the bottom of it one way or another.

The only problem, though, is that he isn’t exactly sure _how_ he will. He supposes he could ask someone else at the club, maybe Thor or one of the other dancers, but Steve gets the impression that they only see Bucky’s slightly erratic behavior and not the cause of it. Still, he could ask anyway, just to be safe. But how does he do that without being obvious about it?

Sighing, he locks his phone and sets it down. It’s his day off and he’s chasing assumptions; he should be working on his art, or going to the gym with Sam. Hell, he should be catching up on his sleep at the very least, since he never seems to get enough of it these days.

Because, well. He’ll never admit it to anyone, not even Sam, but his dreams recently have been mostly about Bucky: those wide and unfocused eyes and the way those shapely lips form around Steve’s name. How Bucky looks onstage, commanding control over the entire room; and how he looks off it, reserved and quiet.

Steve doesn’t want to acknowledge that he’s infatuated with the guy—how cliche would _that_ be? His first job at a strip club and he’s head over heels for one of the dancers. But, Jesus, the way Bucky looks, the way he _smiles_ (when he does it at all). Steve is but a man, made of flesh and sin.

He _thunks_ his head down on his desk, on top of a half-finished sketch for a comic commission. The guy had requested some big, beefy superhero soldier, and Steve is desperately trying not to notice that the sketch has Bucky’s eyes and chin dimple and lips that are so full they should be illegal. In real life Bucky is more lithe than this soldier, his own bulk borne from dancing and light weight-lifting, but semantics. It’s all the same and it’s all saying _Steve Rogers has got it fucking bad_.

Making a note— _soldier wears a lower-face mask?_ —Steve accepts defeat and picks up his phone. There’s no way he’s going to get any real work done, and the deadline is a few weeks away. He’s still got plenty of time, and he’s always worked best under pressure.

He searches through his texts, because he’s terrible and hasn’t saved the number yet. When he dials, Natasha picks up after the second ring, sounding amused. _“To what do I owe this pleasure?”_

“Do you want to get lunch?” Steve asks.

The silence on the other end isn’t unexpected: Steve hasn’t exactly asked to hang out with Natasha outside of work before, just the group dinners-and-drinks he’s attended. Which, yeah, maybe isn’t the best way to secure friends, and really explains why Sam is pretty much his sole shoulder to lean on outside of therapy. He’s gotta work on that.

Well. No time like the present, as they say.

_“Are you sure you have the right number?”_

Steve exhales a laugh, rubbing his palm across his forehead. “I deserve that.”

_“Two months, Steve, and you’ve never asked me out. I’m offended.”_

“Would you believe me if I said you’re not my type?”

_“Please. I’m everyone’s type. But yes, I’m free this afternoon. What were you thinking?”  
_   
  


They meet at a little diner in lower Manhattan, seated across from each other like this is something that they do every day. In the bright sunlight of a November afternoon, a different kind of crowd bustling around them, it almost feels normal.

Natasha outside of work isn’t much different. She still wears the same tight clothing, the same dark, low-cut shirts. But she smiles freer, teases Steve like she doesn’t really do at the club. She isn’t wearing lipstick, and her red hair spills down, unstyled, over her shoulders.

“I was beginning to think you didn’t like me,” she says after handing her menu back to their waiter. It’s casual but pointed, and Steve’s cheeks heat faintly.

“Everyone likes you.” Setting his phone face down on the table, Steve leans back. “Sorry, by the way.”

“Rogers,” Natasha replies with as much emphasis as she can, “when will you realize that I enjoy fucking with you?”

Steve laughs. It loosens something in his chest that he hadn’t realized had gone tight. Natasha Romanoff is a lot of things, but a bad person isn’t one of them. “I guess we need to hang out more for me to really get it, huh?”

“Is this you flirting with me? I thought we established over the phone that you’re very much not my type.”

“Yeah, you like blonds who have constantly broken noses instead, right?”

Steve has met Clint three times since working at the club, and every single time there have been bandages on his nose, sometimes a little faded bruising around the eyes. When he asked, Clint gave him a runaround, cryptic answer, which is befitting the man dating one of the most cryptic people Steve knows.

Still, Clint is good people, the kind that Steve likes to have around. He makes a mental note (since he’s trying to start this whole _actually having friends_ thing) to get Clint’s number so he can invite him and Natasha over. They’ll both get along like a house on fire with Sam, Steve’s sure of it.

“It’s not always broken,” Natasha replies, but there’s something soft in her eyes when she says it. “He’s just very accident-prone.”

Neither she or Clint will tell Steve _what_ , exactly, he does outside of providing stock to the club, but Steve’s beginning to get the impression that their backgrounds might mix pretty well.

“Is that what they’re calling it these days?” Steve asks as their waiter returns, neatly delivering their plates. It isn't until he looks down at the buttery hamburger bun that he realizes how hungry he is. He’s gotten used to the schedule of someone working overnights, but it still doesn’t always leave him a lot of energy to cook anything substantial.

He already has a huge bite in his mouth when Natasha says, “I don’t know what you’re implying—Jesus, have you eaten at all in the last few days?”

Swallowing, Steve carefully wipes his mouth. He knows he looks sheepish as he says, “I haven’t, really.” Then he hesitates. “Can I ask you something?”

Natasha sets her sandwich down and looks at him. “This is about James,” she says. It’s not a question because they both know. Steve’s pretty obvious and Natasha’s pretty observant.

“Partially,” he admits. He plucks a piece of bacon off his burger and pops it into his mouth, crunching down. “It’s mostly about the club itself. Is that okay?”

Natasha nods, so Steve continues. “Did Pierce open it?”

“No, he bought it from a guy named Vassily Karpov about three years ago, when I was still a dancer. James was already working here when I started.”

“Did you know Karpov well?”

Natasha takes a fry and swirls it around the puddle of ketchup on her plate. “Not really. He was more interested in a few of the other dancers we had working there at the time, which was fine with me. I never liked him much. He was a mean guy, spoke almost solely Russian.”

Steve moves the straw in his soda around the cup a few times while chewing on the inside of his cheek. “Did he...ever show any interest in Bucky?”

One fine red eyebrow raises, but Natasha’s face bears no other reaction. She eats another fry, then another, and finally asks, “Why?”

Trying to play it cool, Steve shrugs like there isn’t a basketball-sized leaden lump in his stomach. “Just wondering.”

Natasha doesn’t need to say it for Steve to _know_ that she knows he’s lying. But, like any good friend (Steve hopes that they are), she doesn’t press. “Since I know you won’t stop asking until I tell you, yes. James was doing private shows. It was always in the champagne room, too, until Pierce signed on.”

Ice-cold dread trickles down Steve’s spine before spreading to his limbs. “So he wasn’t the one who started them.”

“Pierce came in as one of Karpov’s…associates, I guess you could say.”

That word. It never means anything good. “And by associates…”

“I mean people who most definitely dabble in illegal gambling and prostitution. He didn’t make his money in the strip club business, but he was certainly spending it there, and a lot of it. From what I know, he convinced Karpov to sell him the club, and it must have been a pretty penny because the negotiations went out the next day. It’s not like Karpov was necessarily attached to the place, but the speed of the transition was a lot faster than I anticipated.”

Natasha stops, resting her elbows on the table and leaning forward. Steve does the same and catches a whiff of her perfume, something deep and chocolatey.

“There are some doors you might want to leave closed, Steve,” she says. The sunlight catches in her eyes, the green sharp and vivid.

Steve raises an eyebrow, not backing down. “I’m not sure what you mean.”

“You remember that I told you about his ex, right?”

“Brock? Yeah.”

“That guy’s about as skeevy as they come. Every time he came into the club I couldn’t wait for him to leave. I think all of us, at one point or another, told James to dump him, but he wouldn’t listen.” Natasha shakes her head. “I saw him with Pierce more than once and haven’t felt comfortable near him since.”

A flash of hate goes through Steve, so strong he’s a little caught off-guard. He hasn’t gotten much out of Bucky regarding his ex because every time he tries, or the conversation organically steers that way, Bucky shuts down. Steve’s always just chalked it up to what he’s been told, the bad breakup, and never let himself wonder further.

“So you think,” he begins, then stops, because he doesn’t know what, exactly, he’s trying to say.

“I think,” Natasha replies, after taking a bite of her club sandwich, “that we should change the subject. You don’t want to go pulling on that thread right now.”

Steve, because he’s torn between anger and sadness, is only too happy to.  
  
  


However, when he gets home he sits at his desk, staring at the rough sketch of Bucky’s eyes, wide and blank the way they sometimes get after he’s left the stage, before he goes to get ready for Pierce. Steve still hasn’t really been able to mix paint to directly match the color of Bucky’s eyes.

He sits there for long minutes with his eyes closed and head in his hands, his thoughts going a thousand miles per hour, before finally dragging his laptop up and opening it. He goes to the Google homepage, then pauses.

The cursor winks at him, over and over, as he stares at the blank search bar. This feels like something he doesn’t want to open, something that should be left alone. Natasha’s words about not pulling a thread repeat like they’re on a ticker. Steve knows he should heed them.

But he’s always been too curious for his own good ( _a cat in a past life_ , his ma used to say) and the browser is already there...

Typing in _Vassily Karpov_ quickly wields results, and Steve clicks on the first one, which leads him to an article from a local news site.  
  


**_Former club owner arrested for sexual assault of a minor  
_** _Vassily Karpov, 50, was arrested in Bayonne, New Jersey, after a tip led local police to his former club,_ The Red Room _, where a seventeen-year-old boy was found—_

  
The arrest took place after the club had already been sold, which means that Bucky was already working there, and was probably even working on that particular night. Pierce isn’t mentioned, and neither is Bucky, so it’s clear that whatever Karpov had been doing was separate from the private shows.

Steve stops reading, feeling sick.

“ _Fuck_ ,” he says.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HELLO ALL. so, i swore i would not go months without an update with this fic, and i am so sorry that it took so long. 2020 sucks ass and it hasn't been helping my creativity. this chapter is a little longer, so pls accept that as my apology! i'm really hoping to be more punctual with updates from here on out.
> 
> please also note that this chapter does contain mentions of non-con, so please please heed this. moving forward, things will be getting darker and the tags on this will begin to come into play.

He’s been through a lot. He’s seen a lot. It’s been years—a decade, maybe—since he’s been really, truly affected by something, the army made sure of that. This goes low and hits him, solid and painful, in the chest. Without really thinking about it he hits the back button to go back to the Google search and clicks on every link he can find.

There isn’t a lot of detail in any of them, but what there is has Steve digging his nails into his palms until the skin stings. From what authorities discovered it was far from Karpov’s first time, and it makes something greasy slide up the back of Steve’s throat. How many victims had he had? What had he done to them?

Was one of them Bucky?

Before he can go any deeper Steve shuts his laptop, slamming the lid closed harder than intended. For a few moments afterwards he stares at its sleek gray cover, thoughts tumbling over one another until they tangle in one writhing, incomprehensible ball.

It makes some of Bucky’s past actions and reactions start to slowly piece together. _If_ he was a victim. One night, when Thor was busy intimidating a man who had gotten a little handsy with Valkyrie, Steve watched a man at the edge of Bucky’s stage stand up, step up to the stage, and grab Bucky through the thin, shiny material of his shorts. Bucky froze.

Steve, ignoring the crowd at his end of the bar, ran over to the stage.

“Hey! What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

The man who groped Bucky was clearly drunk; his friends grabbed his arms and pulled him back, apologizing profusely. All Steve could see was the blank, detached look on Bucky’s face, the stock-still way he held his body under the lights.

The only reason Steve hadn’t punched the guy out was because Thor took over, more than happy to throw Drunk Asshole and his friends out onto the street. Natasha appeared out of nowhere, escorting Bucky down from the stage and behind the thick velvet curtains that led to the back. Steve hadn’t seen Bucky again that night, and Darcy, the bartender who works on Steve’s nights off, filled in for Natasha for the rest of her shift.

At the time, Steve had thought that Bucky was shocked, maybe a little scared or shaken. Though Bucky’s assured Steve more than once that people getting handsy is part of the job, Steve can’t imagine that _ever_ becoming so normal that you don’t react in some way. It’s instinctual, at the base of it all; no one _wants_ that.

Now he’s thinking he’s the most oblivious idiot ever, which isn’t a surprise in the slightest. He groans, rubbing his forehead, and debates texting Natasha to get Bucky’s number. God knows he’s tried: every time he brings it up, even casually to suggest that they could get dinner, go for a movie, even just hang out, Bucky shuts him down.

But, he rationalizes, there’s a reason that Bucky hasn’t given him his number, and to go behind his back is too sneaky and underhanded. The trust Bucky gives is like spun sugar: sweet, carefully cultivated, and delicate, but also ready to break or go bad at the slightest wrong move.

Above anything else, Steve just wants Bucky to _trust_ him.

The door of the apartment clicks open, then shuts with its usual heavy thud. It’s been a few days, Steve realizes, since he’s actually talked to Sam in person and at length. Their schedules are so opposite right now that they’ve kept in touch mostly through text.

Looking down at his laptop, Steve sighs and stands, running his hands through his hair, before calling out, “Hey, Sam, wanna order pizza? I’m buying.”

They make it halfway through one pie—supreme; the other is Steve’s more indulgent white pizza that Sam pretends he hates—and a quarter into the latest _John Wick_ film before Sam says, “So. Are you gonna tell me what you’re worried about?”

Steve wipes his hands on a napkin and takes a swig of his beer. “I’m not worried about anything.”

“You offered to buy pizza and you’re watching _John Wick_ with me.”

“I can’t be a good friend?”

Sam sighs, the long-suffering kind Steve is entirely too accustomed to. He knows what’s going to come next. “Steve. When you don’t wanna be alone, it’s usually because you’re worried about something.”

More denial is on the tip of his tongue, but Steve groans instead, rubbing his palms over his eyes. Sam knows him too well. If he continues to deny it, it’ll just bite him in the ass. “Okay, fine. I’m worried about Bucky.”

They don’t talk about him much because Steve doesn’t bring him up; besides the first time he admitted his attraction, he usually steers clear of any mention of Bucky when talking to Sam, even though Sam would never judge him for his crush. It’s a strictly professional relationship, as much as Steve wishes it wasn’t.

Sam looks over. “Why’s that?”

Hesitant to get right down to brass tacks, Steve stalls a bit. “I met with Natasha for lunch today and we talked about him. She’s known him for a few years, since he was new at the club, and. I dunno. She gets evasive about certain things, and it makes me feel like she’s hiding something.”

“Like what, exactly?”

“Like...he’s been working there for awhile, you know? And I just found out that the guy who originally owned it got arrested for sexually assaulting a minor.” There. Not quite on the nose, but on the cheek at least.  
  
“Do you think Bucky was complicit?” Sam asks, casual as anything.

Steve looks at Sam like Sam just asked him about one of his explicit commissions in detail. “What? No!”

“Hey, just asking. Then why are you worried?”

“Because.” Steve chews his lower lip, picking up his napkin only to crinkle it in his hand. “What I’ve overheard, and how he acts around Pierce, it just makes me think that maybe...maybe it wasn’t _just_ minors.

A deep exhale. There. Saying it out loud makes Steve’s stomach knot unpleasantly, and the pizza that had been so delicious ten minutes ago now tastes like ash in the back of his throat. He sets the mangled napkin down on the coffee table, trading it for the cool, condensation-wet body of his beer bottle.

“So you’re saying that you think Bucky’s been assaulted, too?” It’s Sam’s therapist voice. It makes Steve flinch; even though it’s what he’s been thinking, hearing someone else say it makes it even worse.

“Maybe. Fuck. I don’t know.” Steve downs what’s left, letting the fizz burn his throat. He sets the empty bottle back on its coaster with a dull _clunk_ while he takes time to gather his thoughts. “He gets real quiet when Pierce is around.”

Sam crosses his leg over his knee and leans back against the cushions. He’s watching the movie, but not paying attention to it. “You said it yourself that your boss is an asshole, though. And Bucky seems introverted anyway, that could play a big part.”

“Pierce _is_ an asshole.” Steve rubs his forehead, frustrated. “With Bucky...you need to be there to see it. When he’s at work, when he’s on stage, he’s this completely different person. That’s where he thrives. He _loves_ what he does. But as soon as he sees Pierce he shuts down and retreats into himself.”

“Have you talked to him?” asks Sam. “Not strictly about this, but maybe if he feels like your boss unfairly targets him.”

“He gives those ‘non-answers’ you’re so fond of.”

“Steve,” says Sam, and Steve knows that tone. That’s Sam’s _you’re an idiot_ tone. He’s heard it enough over the years they’ve been friends, and then roommates, for one reason or another. Usually he agrees with it because he knows he’s being an idiot, but this time just feels different. He can’t shake the unease that’s crawling over him like invisible ants. He can’t stop thinking about Bucky’s blank stare in the presence of Pierce.

So maybe he should actually ask, instead of hinting at it like he’s been doing, because that’s done fuck-all so far. And maybe Sam is right and maybe it really isn’t anything nefarious. Pierce is definitely an asshole, but he’s also pretty intimidating in his own right, so it makes sense for someone to cow a little in his presence.

“Yeah,” Steve sighs. He takes another sip of his beer that ends up being a gulp, and he sets the empty bottle back on its coaster with a hollow clang. It sounds a little bit like his chest does at the moment. “Yeah, I know.”

He’ll talk to Bucky tomorrow.

——

When Steve gets to work the next evening he heads straight for the dressing room before even checking in with Natasha, which he knows she’ll chastise him about later, but oh well. He says hi to Thor on his way back, dipping into the dim hallway behind the stage that smells like a mixture of old wood and sharp chemicals

The door to the dressing room is shut, but behind it Steve can still hear the chatter and the pulse of the music. His palms are sweaty; he quickly wipes them on his jeans before turning the knob and opening the door. From the Bose speaker on top of the wardrobe by the door Walk The Moon’s “One Foot” pumps into the room. It’s chaos, like it is every night before opening.

In the corner Pietro is dusting silver glitter over his bare torso with a wide, supple makeup brush, and over by the rolling rack of clothes Wanda is trying to get Valkyrie to try on a pair of powder blue nipple tassels.

“Wanda,” Valkyrie is saying with her eyebrow raised, “I love you, but I will _never_ wear those.”

Bucky’s by the mirrors in the center, where he usually goes, leaning forward with an eyeliner pencil between his fingers. He’s still in a tank top and joggers, but the fabric is gray and thin and does _nothing_ to hide the curves of his ass, bent over like he is. Steve’s throat dries and he coughs, drawing Bucky’s attention.

Their eyes meet in the mirror. As he’s carefully dragging the soft kohl point of the pencil around his waterline, Bucky says, “Heya, Stevie.”

“Hey Buck.” Steve shoves his hands in his pockets, an old habit that’s apparently resurfacing now that his nerves are jangling like nickels in an empty tin can. “Can I, uh. Can we talk? Privately,” he adds, at Bucky’s bemused reflection.

This is not what Sam meant by talking to Bucky about it, but Steve will be damned if he waits any longer.

“Sure,” replies Bucky. There’s a skeptic lilt to his voice, but he straightens up and caps his eyeliner pencil before tucking it into his glittery makeup bag. “Wanna go out in the hallway?”

Steve follows him, making sure to shut the door behind them. At the click of the latch Bucky looks back, stopping and crossing his arms over his chest. His expression is carefully guarded. “What is this, Steve?”

Steve takes a deep breath in, then lets it out in one swift gust. “I know about Karpov.”

Bucky goes from cautious to on edge in a millisecond. The arms crossed over his chest tighten and his shoulders slump infinitesimally inward, curling him in on himself. It’s barely noticeable, but then again, Steve spends a lot of time noticing Bucky, filing away his ticks and idiosyncrasies. This one is his most telling, the one he sometimes gets when he sees Pierce across the room or hears his office door open.

He’s scared.

“There isn’t anything to know,” Bucky says, but it’s low, a little hollow. His chin dips down, too. The urge to wrap him up in his arms is almost overwhelming. “He was a fucked up piece of shit, but I’m guessing you already know that, too.”

It almost makes Steve want to stop, but he doesn’t. He read the article, then a few others, even when the anger swelled up inside him so intensely he had to push away from his desk to avoid punching his keyboard. “I know what he did. I know about the arrest.”

“Yeah?” Bucky’s head snaps up, his eyes cold and flinty where he stares Steve down. Gone is his fear, at least for this moment. “Well then, Karpov never _touched_ _me_. I was too old for him. I had nothing to do with his _private_ shows.”

The mocking emphasis is bitter, and Steve wonders what kind of memory Bucky is recalling. He’s not really sure if he wants to know: Bucky’s a big guy, but he’s trying to make himself smaller and smaller with each passing second. The anger is surface-level, a plating to hide what’s really underneath. Steve thinks that if he were to peel it back he’d find something tarnished.

“Why didn't you say anything?”

“Pierce told me—” Bucky stops and closes his mouth so suddenly his teeth click. His features harden further, going rigid and blank. “Never mind.”

Steve’s heart skitters, jumps. He’s pushing his luck but he can’t stop himself. “What? What did he tell you?”

“Jesus fucking _Christ, Steve_ ,” Bucky snaps. His arms uncross, and his hands ball up into tight fists. “Do you ever know when to shut the fuck up?”

It‘s as effective as a slap to the face. Hell, it may as well have been: Bucky isn’t one to lose his composure, and especially not with Steve. He’s always the mellow one, cooling down Steve’s spitfire temper when it flares up. The complete 180 makes Steve take an incremental physical step back.

“I’m sorry, Buck,” he says immediately. “I know I push sometimes when I should just stuff a sock in it.”

Bucky scoffs, but some of the rigidity in his shoulders softens. “You can say that again.”

He looks around, like he’s scoping the place out, then continues in a hushed tone. “I’m sorry, too. I didn’t mean to yell at you. But you just...fuck, you don’t _know_ what it was like back then. Tasha and I are the only ones left from that time, and Karpov makes Pierce look like your favorite grandfather in comparison.”

There are so many questions Steve wants to ask—what does Bucky mean by that, exactly _how_ bad was Karpov, why did everyone leave?—but he doesn’t. Partially it’s because he’s afraid to know the answer, but mostly because he’s pretty sure he already does. And that’s almost scarier.

“I won’t bring it up again,” Steve promises, just to see how Bucky will react. He may not bring it up to Bucky again, but that doesn’t mean he isn’t still going to search.

Bucky exhales, then grins. Like a switch, he’s suddenly back to his normal flirtatious self as he winks at Steve, says, “Thanks, Stevie. You’re a real pal,” and flounces off into the dressing room.

Steve watches him go, something heavy in the pit of his stomach, and stares at the empty doorway long after Bucky’s gone.

——

“Steve, can you take the trash out?” Natasha asks as she’s pouring a pint of beer.

The night is winding down to one of their slow hours, and Steve is grateful for the opportunity to get some fresh air and get away from people for a bit. He’d been hit on by five different sleazy guys who really did not want to take no for an answer and the patience he usually stores for letting people down gently while on the clock is running low.

There’s a man out in the alley talking on his phone while leaning against the brick when Steve opens the door, two hulking trash bags carried on either arm. Quickly glancing over, Steve recognizes the guy as one of the regulars who go into Pierce’s office: tall and dark-haired and handsome in a rough sort of way, with a rough voice to match. Steve’s never caught his name before and doesn’t care to ask for it now. There’s something about him that sets his teeth on edge, and Steve does his best to keep their interactions at a minimum.

“He’s a great fuck,” the guy is saying loudly, like he isn’t in the street where anybody can hear. He looks at Steve in an unconcerned sort of way, and Steve fights the urge to roll his eyes as he hoists the bags one by one up and into the dumpster, the crash drowning out the man’s words. Of course he’d be out in public talking about his sexual conquests. Him and the guy with the long hair from earlier who kept telling Steve just _exactly_ what he’d do to him would get along great.

Steve slams the lid of the dumpster closed, ready to get back inside and wash his hands, maybe duck into the dressing room again to talk with Wanda for a bit.

“—is he? Nah, he can be a little feisty at first sometimes, but then we usually just give him another shot and shove something in his mouth, if you catch my drift. He knows better than to bite by now.”

Steve stops dead in his tracks, his blood immediately turning to ice. The name isn’t explicitly mentioned, or maybe he missed it when he tossed the garbage, but Steve knows without a doubt, deep in his bones with some ugly, nauseating certainty, that this guy is talking about Bucky.

His fingers tremble when he takes the handle of the backdoor in hand, pulling it open and letting it slam closed to look like he’s gone back inside. The guy isn’t paying him any attention, but Steve isn’t taking the risk. Then he hides on the other side of the dumpster, away from where he could be seen. It seems to work; the guy’s voice raises slightly as he continues to speak.

“—Alex gives him enough drugs to fuckin’ tranq a horse before handing him over, so he’s pliant no matter what you’re doing.” The guy gives a little laugh. “Hell, just last week he was so out of it that Sitwell got creative and shoved the neck of a bottle of Dom in him and all he did was moan. Probably thought it was another cock.”

Another laugh. Steve clenches his fist so hard he feels the tendons creak, bile rising sour in the back of his throat.

“I can see if there’s an opening on Friday. I think it’s just me and Rollins right now, so I’m sure another one won’t be too difficult to manage. Yeah, okay—I’ll be in touch. Bring your fuckin’ A-game if there is.”

He hangs up, then reaches in his pocket for a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. Almost immediately after he’s lit one and taken a deep drag his phone rings again. Blowing out smoke, he answers, “Brock Rumlow speaking.”

The ice in Steve’s veins warms immediately to fire, pouring through him with the force of a volcanic eruption. He wants to sink to the ground. He wants to scream. He wants to charge over there and pummel this man until his fists bleed and his knuckles break and he can release even a single iota of the rage burning inside him. Because it’s—

It’s Brock Rumlow.

 _Bucky’s_ _ex._

**Author's Note:**

> tumblr is [here](http://endofadream.tumblr.com) if, y'know, you're into that sort of thing, same with [instagram](http://instagram.com/wintersoldiered) and [twitter](http://twitter.com/copperinsides)!
> 
> reviews appreciated! especially with chaptered fics. i love talking about my work with y’all :)


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